


Beautiful

by Josselin



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-29
Updated: 2003-10-29
Packaged: 2018-01-20 17:10:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1518569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josselin/pseuds/Josselin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Sort of distantly inspired by <span class="ljuser i-ljuser i-ljuser-type-P"><a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://liasantana.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://liasantana.livejournal.com/"><b>liasantana</b></a></span>’s gray hair plot bunny, and the thoughts <span class="ljuser i-ljuser i-ljuser-type-P"><a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://sisabet.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://sisabet.livejournal.com/"><b>sisabet</b></a></span> had a while ago about how cute Randy looks in glasses.  For <span class="ljuser i-ljuser i-ljuser-type-P"></span><a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://myrna1-2-3.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://myrna1-2-3.livejournal.com/"></a><b>myrna1_2_3</b>, who wanted fic with bonnie Justin.</p><p>Rather fluffy.  Rated PG-13 for language.  Brian/Justin pairing (ah, there was a time when I didn’t have to specify that, wasn’t there?).</p>
    </blockquote>





	Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of distantly inspired by [](http://liasantana.livejournal.com/profile)[**liasantana**](http://liasantana.livejournal.com/) ’s gray hair plot bunny, and the thoughts [](http://sisabet.livejournal.com/profile)[**sisabet**](http://sisabet.livejournal.com/) had a while ago about how cute Randy looks in glasses. For [](http://myrna1-2-3.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://myrna1-2-3.livejournal.com/)**myrna1_2_3** , who wanted fic with bonnie Justin.
> 
> Rather fluffy. Rated PG-13 for language. Brian/Justin pairing (ah, there was a time when I didn’t have to specify that, wasn’t there?).

One day, Brian came home from work at seven-thirty. This was not unusual, but what was unusual was that he was already drunk enough to be stumbling and balancing himself with one hand on the counter.

He called me “Sonnyboy,” told me the curry I was making looked like shit, and informed me that Connie’s Chips are crisptastic, which was not quite as random as it sounded, because that was the ad campaign he’d been working on that week.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I asked, taking my curry off the stove and scooping it into a bowl.

Brian looked all affronted by this question. “Nothing’s wrong with me,” he slurred. “I’m beautiful,” he proclaimed, waving his arm widely and almost falling over.

I snorted, and that pissed him off, so he started swearing at me.

“Look,” I said, washing my hands and setting the curry pan to soak in the sink. “It doesn’t sound like you’ll be wanting any curry. So why don’t you go pass out in the bedroom so I can eat dinner in peace.”

Brian got this wounded look on his face, and I just tried to ignore him because I knew that he wanted me to fight with him and I wasn’t going to succumb, not this time. I was curious as hell, of course, about what had prompted him to go get wasted in the middle of the afternoon, but sometimes these things just happened with Brian, and usually I never found out the reasons. Sometimes he’d let something slip later, but rarely.

Eventually Brian passed out in the bedroom, and I fed him the leftover curry the next day for dinner. He told me that it wasn’t as good the second day, which I took as maybe a vague sort of apology, and I didn’t mention to him that really, it hadn’t been all that good the first day, either—I had to find a new recipe.

* * *

I found out later that that had been the day of Brian’s doctor appointment, which explained a lot, really. Brian had been having these headaches—he never said anything, of course, he just squinted at his computer screen and snapped at me and probably Cynthia or anyone else stupid enough to get within range. Sometimes I could get him to lie down on the couch while I’d massage his temples, but for the most part, any sort of insinuation that he was in pain just caused vehement denials and surreptitious consumption of huge quantities of Tylenol and other, less legal, drugs.

But anyway, Brian had headaches, and when **he** had a headache, it meant that the rest of us had a headache as well, namely—him.

I hadn’t thought about it much besides how annoying he was, and maybe attributed it to stress or something in the back of my mind—he’s constantly reminding me how he has to prove himself again every other day at the new agency.

That day Brian had had a routine appointment at the eye doctor, and I guess they told him he needed reading glasses. As you can imagine, he didn’t take this very well. I guess he rolled his eyes and stuffed a prescription in his pocket with no intention of ever actually filling it, except the nurse suggested that often people who need reading glasses will start to get a lot of headaches, and using his glasses would really help with that.

I didn’t find any of this out until I came back to the loft one afternoon with a backpack full of texts on Austrian cathedrals. Brian was working at his desk, his attention seemingly divided between a number of papers spread out in front of him and his computer monitor. He was wearing glasses—stylish ones with minimalist wire frames that I had never seen before.

Of course I was very understanding. “Brian,” I said, cracking up. “You have glasses!”

Brian looked up at me, startled—sometimes he gets so absorbed in his work he doesn’t even notice me coming in and out. Then he whipped off his glasses and tried to hide them in his desk drawer. “I do not,” he said.

I was still laughing, dropping my bag full of books with a thud and crossing over towards him. “You do so!” I sing-songed. “I saw them! Put them back on so I can see.”

Brian was surly. “No.” He glared at me while I tried to get my laughter under control, and then, still pouting, he went over to lie down on the bed. I took the glasses out his drawer and followed him over the bed, and put them on him so I could inspect how they looked.

“They’re not so bad,” I soothed, but the effect was probably lost as I was still giggling periodically.

Brian just snorted at my attempts at soothing.

“They make you look hot,” I tried.

“Don’t lie to try to make me feel better.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “They make you look like a dork.”

Brian groaned, taking the glasses off and putting them on the nightstand. “I’m getting laser surgery.”

“Can you get laser surgery instead of reading glasses?” I questioned.

“I don’t know,” Brian said, rolling over onto his stomach. “If you can’t now, you probably will be able to by the time I can afford it, anyway.”

“Gosh,” I said, kicking my shoes off and making myself comfortable next to him on the bed. “You are going downhill. Poor and with ugly glasses. Should probably just shoot yourself.”

Brian sniffed. He’s such a drama queen. “Probably,” he agreed.

“I’m going to leave you for someone who has 20/20 vision,” I said.

“You would,” he replied.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I’m shallow that way.”

We laid in silence for a bit, and then he rolled over and started unbuttoning my shirt. He didn’t need glasses for that—he could do it in the dark with his eyes closed, and I’m sure he has.

* * *

The next day, I noticed that Brian took his glasses off the nightstand to tuck into his briefcase as he went off to work. His headaches slowly began to disappear, much to everyone’s relief. And one morning, when we were eating eggs at the diner, Brian sort of absentmindedly took his glasses out of his pocket when he was reading the paper.

I didn’t even notice, since I was used to the glasses by then, but Michael stopped mid-Wheaties spoonful—Ben’s rubbing off on him—to stare at Brian. Brian sensed Michael’s eyes on him and looked up from the paper, and then seemed to realize what he’d done. For a second, I thought he was going to try to rip the glasses off again and pretend they didn’t exist, but he just sort of looked at Michael, daring him to comment on the glasses.

Michael wisely didn’t say anything. Ted would have definitely said something, but he wasn’t around.

Maybe someday Brian will have enough money to afford the laser eye surgery he wants and all the plastic surgery he wants, too. Or maybe next year he’ll need bifocals, and will just start to adjust to the idea of aging gracefully. Because after all, youth and beauty are fleeting. Luckily, I don’t need to worry about that yet.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Imported from: http://josselin.livejournal.com/21964.html


End file.
